Empire Rising
by tommorusso
Summary: Decades after the war against Voldemort, the world has moved on. The Statute of Secrecy is gone and wizards and mundane people share the same world again. Technology has advanced to the point that the old guard scarcely recognise anymore and the world it has built. I'm just trying something different with this, it's an idea for a real novel that I've had. R&R please!


The night was the same as any other in London, but on the twenty-fourth of September in the year of our Lord 2053, the background buzz of seventeen million people pressed hard into a rough circle three miles in diameter was disturbed by an explosion along the waterfront next to the Westminster Parliament Museum.

King George IV witnessed the explosion from his bedroom in Buckingham Palace and smiled to himself. A job that needed doing well ALWAYS justified the cost. The tiny princess Diana woke as the sound of the explosion reached the palace, setting off several car alarms in the grounds and started to wail once more.

"Hush, little love." The king said to his fourth child, the second born to his second wife Queen Caroline. He lifted her, patting her tiny back and cooing to her, "Don't wake your mother."

He returned the baby to the cradle at the foot of his bed and slid back between the sheets. Caroline stirred next to him and muttered something in her sleep. George wriggled down next to her and brushed his lips on a bare shoulder.

Hector "Happy" Hussein was literally running for his life. The job had gone well until it came to making their exit, upon which all hell had broken loose. Grain was unconscious and bouncing around on Happy's shoulder, something that was undoubtedly aggravating the bullet-wound in her right hip but given the choice between that and certain death, seemed preferable. Bilbo and Soundwave had already reached their rotos and The Lieutenant's spy drone had zipped past and out of sight as soon as the charges were planted.

Soundwave's voice sounded through the tiny earbuds in his ears. "You're almost there man, there were five Democs sniffing around your roto but Bilbo took care of them, they're having a paddle in the river."

"You're welcome." Bilbo said, her voice cool and eerily calm as usual. Hector looked over toward the river and saw the weird shimmer that always betrayed the presence of one of the magician's spirits.

Happy tried to thank them but only had enough breath to keep on running. The pain from the piece of shrapnel that had scraped along his left bicep was incredible. Soundwave and Bilbo were moving on his heads-up display, hovering around his destination.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and pressed on, pumping his legs and dodging around a late night tour bus that had swerved after their explosion.

Pushing through the bush that was his final obstacle, he saw the pair of rotos twenty metres away and muttered the guardpass to turn it on. The roto hummed to life just as Bilbo's own machine was blown to fiery splinters fifty feet overhead.

"Shit!" Soundwave screamed over the team comlink as he took evasive manoeuvres.

Happy looked up and saw the blaze of heavy weapons fire from a gunship bearing the insignia of the Democratic Unionists.

At the same moment that Soundwave's roto took first one then six more hits, King George slipped into a deep, restful sleep filled with dreams of Empire.

From deep dreams of flashing green light that had become so familiar they no longer scared him, he heard the blaring of an incoming call alert.

'Wake up, master.' The firebird said, blowing warm, sweet air into his face. The air crept into his skin and set his nerves on fire.

He woke up. The fire spirit that had been with him for almost thirty years was small in its materialised form, taking the shape of a long-vanished phoenix that had been the familiar and friend of his decades-dead teacher Albus Dumbledore. It wasn't the same creature, though; just a quirk of the imperfect summoning performed so many years ago.

'Good morning, thank you.' He said, and tapped the commlink that lay on his bedside table. 'This had better be good.'

'Good morning sir, I'm sorry to bother you so early.' Said Benoit Lupin, his twenty-five year old second in command, assistant to the head of the Auror Office and grandson of one of the greatest people the old man had ever known.

'What time is it?' He asked, relieved that he only had to be called "sir" in an official capacity for another few days – 73 was far too old to still be working 50 hours each week.

'Five minutes to five; like I said, I'm sorry it's so early, but we need you in the office as soon as possible. There's been an explosion at the Houses of Parliament.'

Cold water flooded his veins and with a groan, the creaking of old joints and the aching of ancient injuries, he rolled out of bed.

The room lit automatically as usual and the old man picked up the wand from his bedside table. Like so many things since the awakening, it was strictly unnecessary now; wands, like incantations were all completely optional these days. But he still felt attached to the old stick and magic didn't feel right without it. Garrick Ollivander had died in 2002, having never recovered from his injuries and tortured committed by Voldemort in the cellar of Malfoy Manor. He had passed the ancient family business on to his nephew Elliot, but it had never been the same since. Ollivander's was a tourist attraction now that Diagon Alley's wards were defunct and anyone could visit it as part of the London sightseeing tours.

The wand was the same as it had ever been – save a brief few months when it hadn't been in such good repair – and it felt just perfect to him as his gnarled fingers closed around it. He padded barefoot into the bathroom, feeling his limbs become more responsive. With no time for a shower, he twitched the wand a few times to scrub his skin clean, brush his teeth and wash his hair. Then he turned to face the mirror.

The face was lined enough for the original one that had defined him for so long was barely visible. But it was a strong and dignified face and he was proud that the last couple of decades spent mostly behind a desk or in meetings hadn't made him soft. His still thick and gleaming silvery hair was healthy and he hadn't needed to let out his belt since his thirties. He could still run a mile in seven minutes and his magic was as strong as ever.

He returned to the bedroom, avoiding as always, looking at her side of the bed – the side that had been empty the last six years and dressed quickly. He had suits enough at the office and so pulled on a pair of normal trousers and a shirt then socks and shoes. Descending the stairs toward his front door he checked the mirror on the wall one last time and Harry James Potter left the house.


End file.
